


Used to Be Mad Love

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Drunk Blow Jobs, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Recreational Drug Use, The Worst Party Ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:46:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3488768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year later he'll reflect on all of this in mandated group therapy and he'll realize that's just how it was with them: they were two trains barreling at full speed towards a brick wall, except Kent cut his skates at the last second and Jack hit head on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Used to Be Mad Love

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to my betas and cheerleaders [robokittens](http://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens) and [andwhatyousaid.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/andwhatyousaid/)
> 
> Heartfelt apologies to the outstanding and talented [Ngozi](http://ngoziu.tumblr.com). You gave us two fucked up boys, and I fucked them up some more. Thank you endlessly for Check, Please; it is a joy.

It’s a bad loss. The ugly, ruptured fault line through a six game winning streak.

Jack is so angry with himself, so on fire with it, that he has to clench his fists down at his sides when he’s not actively using his hands. It's safer that way, just in case he takes a pot shot at his locker, or the wall, or a teammate. He’s fucking shaking as he fumbles around in his duffle for his pills, nearly drops his fucking water bottle when he takes a big swig, 5 milligrams of valium down the shoot. Bye, bye grey matter. He pulls his track jacket on over his hoodie, slings his bag over his shoulder, and stomps out to the bus with the guys.

Parse is next to him, close to him, the second they’re all on board and on the way back to Halifax. There's a movie playing, but Parse has his headphones in, and when he bounces along to the music his arm brushes against Jack's every time. His touch is a metronome, a familiar question. A few hours into the drive, Jack’s shoulders are hunched up, and his knees are folded towards his chest. His sneakered feet rest against the back of the seat in front of him. The resistance keeps him small, crunched in on himself, contained.

The bus has been quiet for a long time when Parse says, a little too loud, a little too close, "Let's wild out tonight."

Jack never says no.

_/ _/ _/ 

This party is a huge mistake. Jack knows it right away. It’s the kind of party that gets away from you. The kind of party that ends with you passed out in a snow bank while your buddies try and wake you up before you freeze to death. It’s the kind of party that ends with _come the fuck on, Zimmermann, we gotta go_.

_/ _/ _/

Flip drives them out in his hand-me-down Dodge Caravan. He's one of the only guys on their team with a car and one of the only guys actually from Halifax. He knows his way around the interstates. He’ll probably get drafted next summer too. They've all already got red cups in hand while they're on the road and Parse is blasting Top 40. When Flip grins and says, "we're here," here is a ramshackle Victorian at the end of a long dirt road, the tree-lined offshoot of a highway outside of town. It’s the middle of nowhere, the wilderness.

There are kids frankly pouring out of the place, three feet of snow on the ground and someone's started a bonfire in the yard. Jack has seen every single one of these high-pitched girls—in their Uggs and miniskirts, with their open jackets, bare legs, and red cheeks—at some other party in some other town, a constantly replenishing resource of stupid and couldn't-give-a-fuck. He swallows down his vodka orange juice and Parse elbows him hard in the side as they get out the van. Jack crushes his cup in his fist. He has no idea whose house they're at: a teammate's friend thrice removed. He has no idea how he'll get back to his billet family.

It doesn't matter.

_/ _/ _/

The house is dark, and the crush of bodies in every hallway is claustrophobic. Flip throws up his arms and yells for “bitches to move out the way” as they push inside. The air is stale with cigarette smoke and beer. It's the scent of the semi-rural rager. These shitshows always smell the same.

Jack ends up in a room on the first floor. It was probably a parlor at one point, but now it’s home to a broken upright piano, a bunch of fucked up lawn chairs, and a suspect collection of stained couch cushions strewn about the ground like someone's idea of a harem boudoir. Worst of all, the light bulb is a black light and the walls are filthy.

“This is fun, right, Zimms?” Parse looks at him a little slyly from a nest of cushions.

Jack nods, and Parse tightens a rolled up dollar bill before he lowers his face to some townie girl's breast where a precarious line of blow is waiting to be sucked up. Jack swallows thickly and watches her tilt her head and shake her hair out when Parse is done. She runs a finger slowly over the swell of her breast, then rubs the white residue into her gums. She smiles like she means sex, and Jack pushes away from the wall to hunker down next to them.

"Your turn," Parse says, and draws a line of coke for him just a bit closer to her slightly exposed nipple. Shultz, short for Sulzberger, chuckles darkly from somewhere behind them, and Jack takes the offered bill from Parse's hand.

"Zimmermann just can't say no, can he?" Shultz says, and Jack can hear the grin in his voice, the gentle chirp. _I can't_ , he thinks, as the cocaine buzzes into his blood. _I really fucking can't._

_/ _/ _/

He migrates to a different room, loses Parse in the process. That's how these things work: a shifting trajectory based on where the kegs are, where the girls are, and where the drugs are.

Someone passes Jack a joint and he takes a long drag before tripping and nearly crashing into an empty fireplace where a stereo is set up. A guy he doesn't know pulls him up with a knowing look and helps him over to a couch. He feels embarrassed, relieved his skull is still intact. A little bit angry that his skull is still intact.

Jack was pretty fucked up before he even got here, whenever the fuck that was.

Somewhere to his left, Billy Montforte keeps promising his cousin Jean Luc is going to show up with more blow or at least some E. Jack is nearly incoherent on the torn up leather couch in the middle of the room. A couple is making out practically on top of him and he thinks it might be Shultz and coke boobs. Good for Shultz. A bunch of shitfaced girls and some of his teammates coo over a box of fucking kittens in the corner. Little balls of half-formed fur crawling all over each other. He can sort of make out their high-pitched meows over the music. Where’s their mother? _Christ_ , Jack feels bad for those fucking kittens. He thinks he's gonna be sick. 

But Kent—Kent _saves_ him. Kent always shows up right when Jack needs him. He's always got another drink and little bit more blow, and usually some of Jack's pills. Kent is a fucking saint.

“I lost you,” Kent shouts, then he drops down next to Jack, nearly in his lap, and slings a heavy, possessive arm across his shoulders. Jack leans into him.

"Save those kittens, willya?" he slurs into Kent’s t-shirt. 

"They're fine, Zimms," Kent says. And maybe he sounds a little annoyed. "But you're not."

Kent tugs on his shoulder and Jack lazily, barely under control, lolls his head to the side so he can see him. 

"Let's get you outta here," Kent says.  
  
"But I'm comfy," Jack whines as a pair of girls with matted hair start to make out in front of them.  
  
"You're not." Kent is firm. He usually knows best. "Let's go. Up and at ‘em."  
  
Kent stands, a little unsteady himself, his hazel eyes bright in the dim living room. At least Jack thinks it's a living room. Kent offers his hand and Jack pulls himself to his feet, almost loses his balance and falls back into the deep leather couch again, but Kent keeps a hold on him. Kent always has his back. 

_/ _/ _/

Kent takes them upstairs where it's a little bit quieter, kids all sequestered off in different bedrooms. Jack alternates between hugging the railing and clutching at Kent on the way up, trying hard to keep his tenuous balance, and Kent keeps snickering fondly at him. They weave past preoccupied bodies down a dark hall.

Then it's another dingy room that smells like mildew. There's a couple already on one of the saggy twin beds with its 1970s graphic flowered bedspread, so Kent just shoves Jack up against the door after he nudges it shut behind them. Neither of the other kids fooling around even look up.

Jack takes a shuddering deep breath.

Kent's hands are everywhere all at once and the door is hard and cold against his back. Jack's breathing turns labored and his skin feels so, so sensitive. It feels tight on his bones.

"There are people in here," he says dumbly as Kent sucks at the pulse point below his ear. "They'll see us," he adds and it ends in a needy little whine.

"Fuck them," Kent says, breathy and hot against Jack's ear.

"Kent..."

"Do you really. Want. Me. To. Stop?" He asks, punctuating each word with a kiss that doesn't last long enough. He cups Jack through his jeans, presses himself against Jack's thigh so Jack is certain to feel the hard line of him.

" _No,_ " Jack mumbles, abashed, and rubs his leg against Kent's groin to make his point. Good judgment off the ice hasn't been his strong suit for a long time.

"Good," Kent whispers, low and sexy, then he gets down on his knees.

Jack’s forehead creases up in concern, but his hands are in Kent's hair and Kent keeps shushing him around his dick. Jack kind of wishes they were just kissing, maybe rubbing off against each other, but Kent likes him like this. Kent likes when he's high as a kite and pliant and overwhelmed. Kent likes taking care of him. Jack needs to focus. He knocks his head against the door, hard. He tries to reel himself in, he tries to maybe stop this because what about the other people? What if they see? What if that’s a teammate? What if this is how it all falls apart? And...and God that feels good fuck _Kenny_ , _merde_ —

He wants nothing more than to fuck into Kent's mouth, to push his hips forward hard and push himself deeper, but Kent has a viselike grip on his thighs, holding him steady, his ass flush to the wall. God, he wants to move so bad, but Kent won’t let him. He closes his eyes, balls his fists in Kent’s hair, and holds on tight instead.

 _/ _/ _/

“Come the fuck on, Zimmermann. We gotta go.”

Jack opens his eyes to daylight.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://reserve.tumblr.com) for more of the same.


End file.
